Intoxicatingly Suave
by The Itchy Bird
Summary: After a very exhausting Templar infiltration, Connor is so fed up with Mondays. But Stephane Chapheau takes the opportunity to offer a drink, with Connor actually taking the offer. What happens after a few drinks is, to say, 'interesting'... (Modern AU of AC3. May be cracked-induce and includes alot of 'Sassway' narration.)
1. THE DRINK

**Notice:** Okay. I've got about two fanfics to update and a heap of drawing and designing to do (and all before my hip surgery), but I took the BLOODY time to write this?

Yes. *spazzes*

Basically set in my D-UA (Dial-Up Assassin) fanfic universe so it's another Modern AU, but I'll make this SO random, it doesn't matter what the timeline even IS in this story. XD

Blame Achilles Davenport for his not-so-clear simile about Connor looking like some Spaniard or Italian (Like, seriously?) and Stephane Chapheau offering Connor an ale. Oh, and a blasted Japanese safety lighter. (IDK, it's too damn early in the morning and using those to light my stove is shit.)

Enjoy the snippet. Ah-Hyuck! :P

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**— ACT 1: THE DRINK —**

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_**Somewhere in Boston, Massachusetts**_

_**About 9: 45 P.M. on a Monday**_

_**Ratonhnhaké:ton/Connor's POV**_

"So...", Stephane started, pseudo greeting me, as he polished the counter top for the gazillions time of the night. "How hard was it _this_ time, _Monsieur Mohawk_?"

I chewed automatically and twirled my fork. Despite my rather irate gut feeling, I looked up from my cap at him, swallowed before speaking. "How hard was it _this_ time?" My voice sounded sluggish as I repeated his question, tone mocking crankily.

It was too late on a Monday. A few hours ago, I had escaped yet _another_ horde of Abstergo lackies who were 'guarding' (For the common civilian, it looked like they _were_ guarding it.) the house of a government official. Said government official (I don't care to remember his name for.) sent out a call to the Assassins before getting cut off. And naturally, the New England team sent me out. And would you know it. It was HALF-WAY across the fucking state!

So when I got there, of _course _I had to get him out. Luckily, Clipper and Duncan were free for the night and met up with me there. We hijacked the security system, took out enough of the guards to sneak in, and let ourselves in. We freed the official, but it turned out to be a trap: the minute we unbound him, he cried out for the guards. (A Templar mole. Why was I NOT surprised.)

We weren't allowed to kill the guy, but we knocked him out after throwing a flash bang on the floor. As my Recruits closed their eyes, I used whatever sight my Eagle Vision allowed me to eliminated the guards inside. And before the slight completely cleared, we made our way and got out, but not before killing _more _guards along the way.

After the escape, all three of us went our separate ways as to not cause suspicion And changed my guise to Civilian Mode pronto and hide inside the old Molineux* pub Stephane worked at. All the way in Boston.

To put it short, the only things we got from _that_ experience were our lives intact and one more name to add to our blacklist. So, how hard_ was it?_

"It wasn't really _that_ hard." I lied, too exhausted to tell the truth and took off the cap, putting it on the counter before adding, "But it was _shitty_ enough for me to wish someone else was sent for it."

I didn't usually curse, so Stephane knew enough just how shitty it really was from my stressing of the word alone, him nodding thoughtfully. Heck, I was going to tell him later, anyway.

There was a cough to my left. As he and I both turned to the source, nearby costumer grudgingly rose from his stool at the bar and slammed his drink pay before staggering away. He had consumed five mugs of beer, the mugs stacked together in a small pool of alcohol.

As Stephane rolled his eyes and went to collect the soggy bills, he replied, "Well, it's not like you didn't have a _choice_ to say no, right?" Taking the mugs one by one, he added. "But knowing you, my friend. No, you'd have insisted to be sent. Let's not kid ourselves, _oui_?" Another swift polishing and he was done, but he kept his 'I told you so' face.

I snorted. Right, I told old Achilles that I was the best fit for the job, being the only available Assassin at the time. I flexed my tired and muscles as I glances back at the joint. After that last costumer left, the place was completely empty, save for me, Stephane and a few bar runners closing up way earlier than their usual closing time.

Then again, Mondays were a pain in the neck for most people. Not an ideal day to bar hop.

Looking down, the plate of half-eaten pork medallions stared back at me as I jabbed my fork in again and took a bite, chewed and swallowed but savoring the buttery taste. Repeated the process a bunch of times before I decided to talk again. "Well, who _else_ was willing to do it? Not old Faulkner or _you_, that's for sure." I pointed the fork at him mid-sentence before repeating my eating mantra.

I'm going to have to get the recipe for this, not that anything I made could rival Stephane's cooking.

The man in question merely snickered, wiping his hands on his apron and said, "That's because some of us work the graveyard shifts. But then again, the most exciting event tonight is you eating and chatting with me, so maybe I should have joined you." He joked before trying to cover a yawn.

I shook my head as I watched. Like I said, Mondays were the worst, even at night.

But why antagonize the guy further when his pork medallions were the best thing that's happened to me so far today? So instead, I chided. "While on the subject, you can report back on Thurday and we'll fill you in then. But for now," To make a point, I mixed all the buttered pork left in one wholehearted bite, chewing vigorously before wolfing it down with a hardly suppressed burp. "I'm thankful to the spirits for that ass-kicking meal after a shitty time at work."

Sue me for the cliché, but I made for a nearby napkin and wiped at my lips as Stephane's ego got boosted, making his laugh all the more jolly. Taking the napkin from me and into the nearby bin, he said between spurts, "Okay, okay. Since you're the only customer left, how about I get you something to go with those buttered medallions, eh?" The Québécois man darted to the back door before I could ask. Knowing Stephane, only one thing would go great with my meal.

When he came back, it was with a very teasing smirk and a bottle of, wouldn't you know it, brandy

I gave him a nonchalant expression, complete with a nostril flare, upon seeing the liquor. It wasn't that I didn't drink nor was I a light-weight (Shut up. I'm _not_.), but my Assassin persona requires me to be alert at all times. Meaning, I usually declined Stephane's offer to have a drink with him because with _him_, it'll be one glass. Then another. And another...

And that night, he tried to convince me again, cooing out, "Come on, Radun! You barely come here during the day, so tonight is a down-right miracle! And you just finished my pork medallions with bliss, too. And nothing goes better with buttered pork than a nice snifter of brandy." As he spoke, Stephane took out said snifter glass from the ceiling, polishing the glass before setting it infront of me.

I scrutinized the wide then slender glass before eyeing Stephane with the same expression. "We've been over this a bunch of times, weren't we? I only drink during gatherings. During the holidays. With people who I _know_ wouldn't let me have more than two shots—no offense." I corrected, but to my disappointment, he wasn't even listening as he poured the brandy in neat.

(Yes. I _know_ that it means 'at room temperature'. I've spent college with a bar tender for a roommate, for Pete's sake.)

Afterwards, he settled the opened bottle on the counter and waited, commenting. "We're not going _anywhere_ until you have a drink with me. _Comprendre**_?" And with that, he took another glass and poured some for himself.

I felt trapped. Trapped between a pompous Recruit-now-Ally and the possibility of overdrinking. My eyes shifted back and forth, from Stephane's eager glass lift to the one he offered me, the aroma make its way up my nose as I leaned over. Couldn't quite remember what brandy tasted like, but I did remember the warm gush inside my esophagus. My fingers went and fidgeted over one another in thought. Maybe...

With a defeated sigh, I stretched out my right hand and gently held the round base around my palm. I twirled it, the dark caramel liquid swirled as I let my palm warm up the drink. I tried not to look too beaten down the bush as I raised the glass to offer a toast and scuffed, "_Santé***?_"

And Stephane repeated gladly. "_Santé!_"

Let me tell you: the face Stephane made as he clinked my glass was the most gleeful face I've seen on that guy in awhile. As we toasted, I spotted the hoppers cheering us on. Like Stephane was victorious in battle.

I rolled my eyes at those chumps. This was going to be a loooong night.

As Stephane took his first few swigs, I took my time sniffing my glass. The alcohol mingled with the grapes curiously, the aroma very pungent. After a few moments, I took a well-sized sip.

The aftertaste of slight fruit and alcohol were nothing to the instant heat going down my throat. Really warm down there now.

Stephane must have seen my expression because he kept going, "Go on. It gets better after the first sudden swig." Or something else after every gulp of his brandy.

Had to be honest and thankful: Stephane knows what I'd like or what I'd probably get used to. And brandy was both, somehow. I took another swig and felt warmer.

The third one emptied my glass and I set it on the counter. My chest feels like a bonfire during a pauwau night! But while I was letting the warm feeling ebb off, the glass emitted a liquid sound as Stephane gave another glass full of brandy, the half-smile never leaving his face.

"Yeah hah~! You're doing great, my friend! Now, another glass for luck?" He chided before giving himself another sniffer-full.

Shaking my head again, I took the glass once more. Was going to do another toast before I realized...

"Wait. Shouldn't we be toasting to...something?" I suggested, twirling the glass once more.

That actually made the other paused at my suggesting. It took him a few seconds before the snap on his fingers meant he had an idea. " Alright. How about...A toast to a not-so-shitty Monday?" He exclaimed with bravado.

My brow raised at the idea because this Monday was _slightly_ shittier than most of my Mondays in reality. My questioning stare earned an eye roll from Stephane as he added, "I meant for me, Slow joe. Because I actually got you to drink with me." He grinned and raised the glass again.

Maybe it's the warmth in my chest, but I was all for that suggestion. Why not? "Fine.", said half-heartedly. Raising my glass, I repeated, "To a not-so-shitty Monday t'us all!"

"Huzzah!" The older man sang. We again finished out glasses. Remarkably, I wasn't feeling _that_ light-headed yet, either. Okay, maybe the warmth went slightly to my cheeks, but I'm still sober. Honest!

This time, I didn't lower my glass. Kept the empty snifter in the air, actually asking for another serving. And it caught Stephane complete by surprised, almost missing his glass as he poured for himself once more. _Classic._

Still taken aback, he poured the brandy into my glass, but slower. There was a mixture of pleased, awkward and concern lingering in his voice as he asked, "Really? You're actually up for a third glass?"

I smirked at that. "I've gulfed down two glasses of brandy. Not like I can't handle a third. Right?" Also, not like I was going to let him be the better in this situation.

He immediately got over his shock, replaced with enthusiasm instead. "_Oiu, monseiur! _And what do we toast this glass to?"

What to toast to...I thought for a moment, wanting to say something about "keeping pur skins after a very unsuccessful mission", but that would compromise the Brother hood. so instead, I smiled stupidly to myself as I answered, "To the best pork medallion recipe you're going to give me right after we finish this!"

Yes. Because those pork medallions where the best. And because Stephane made them just for me.

His laugh was instantaneous, clinking my glass and hollered, "To the best pork medallion that gave me an excuse to drink with you! _Santé!_"

"Yeah. _Santé."_ I snorted out, not even bothering to be annoyed at the exclamation and drank down my brandy in one gulp.

After that, things got really warm and woozy, I think...

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**— END OF ACT 1 —**

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**Author's note**: *Okay, I have NO IDEA what tavern Stephane Chaphaeu worked at in AC3, so I went and just took the name "Marquis" after Lafayette and bam! Fancy pub name! *shot at by angry French people*

**Update: I FOUND OUT. It's the "Molineux tavern". Went and edited that out now. **

**_Comprendre_ means "understand". It's like one the first words I remembered from my small French language book. Still dunno if I remembered it properly...

***_Santé_ means "cheers"... Did it NEED a translation, though?

And yes, I know what drinking brandy feels like. And I can relate to how Connor's feeling since I myself ain't such a hard drinker. But yeah, brandy's good. Never had it neat, though, we Asians and our on-the-rocks habits. *shrugs*

So, what happens next after the third glass of brandy? Stay tuned and find out NEXT TIME! XD

(Which may be later this week if I finish D-UA's next chapter quicker.)

¡Asta la vista, me amigos!

_~Itchy_


	2. THE WAITING-UP

**Notice: **I feel pretty bad that I didn't continue this one like I promised, but now that I'm on my way to finishing the last bits of "Know Thyself", I might as well finish this doc I've had stashed up for months now. Why not?

This was actually supposed to be a longer chapter, but now I've decided to make it two chapters, since the "not so long" chapter updates on this fic seem more ideal and balanced. Yippee! XD

Also I have NO IDEA where the actual location of the Davenport Homestead was in the game, so FRACK THAT. Imma put it in Cambridge City, near Boston, so THERE.

Brace yourselves.

Aaaaand…Read on!

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**_— ACT 2 : THE WAITING UP —_**

**_The Davenport Apartment building, Cambridge, Massachusetts_**

**_1:15 A.M on a Tuesday_**

**_David Walston/Big Dave's POV_**

Low lighting and the faintest sounds being amplified by the quiet. The blue prints for a special tool I had drafted earlier that night was rolled up, my hands turning it constantly. I've been unrolling and looking at the design repeatedly for about an hour now, my turn as 'apartment sentry' for the night watch almost up. I've stopped marching about the hall minutes ago, but I still kept my Red Sox* baseball bat between my elbows just in case.

Besides me was Lance, who was waiting for his turn on the night watch on one of his IKEA-like chairs. Although, he didn't seem for the wear to be any kind of sentry: wearing one of those two-piece pajamas, complete with fuzzy wool slippers, hair frizzled all over and his beard, and even a dress robe! (All he needed was a night cap and he'd be ready for A Christmas Carol play!)

All I had on was a tank top and my sweatpants, my socked feet barely shielding my skin from the wooden floor. And even those were uncomfortable.

The sleep was still on him even, judging on how he keeps rubbing his hand over his face and the constant suppressing of yawns. Makes me wonder why he even bothered to get up for the watch.

Still, it was nice to have a friend to be with during this late at night.

Through another yawn, Lance went and drawled out, "How much longer till Connor comes back now? He said…said he'd be back before one, right?" The man then stretched out on his seat, arms and legs going on opposite directions.

Marching near the front door, I glanced over to telecom installed on the wall near it then to Lance and snorted out, "Already giving in to Morpheus' grasp, are ya?" I chuckled out and went over to lean against the wall next to him. I tried to suppress a snort as Lance shifted in his seat awkwardly from my statement.

"It's not that I wasn't prepared for my turn on watch…" The man began as he slowly got out of his chair, hiding a loud yawn futilely to look at me and continued, "I just wish Connor didn't take so long to come back." He remarked about our much appreciated but task-demanding caretaker. A short glance at the hanging wall clock above me made his brows frown unpleasantly. "What does the boy do when he's not taking care of this place, anywho? And at this late at night even!"

I merely shrugged in reply. We all knew that the man, modest and helpful as he was, had his own secrets, particularly about his daytime-or nighttime-line of work. Something about a telephone company or security work, but that was it.

We didn't pry him for more, though. Never. Why bother? He never asked _us_ for our secrets.

A knock nearby got our attentions, but it wasn't from the front door. We turned our heads over to the nearby staircase to see someone at the bottom most tier. But as the person climbed down completely, we calmed down. It was Ellen, dressed in a long nightgown and her own dress robe (Really. Why was everyone in those things?) with, bless God Almighty, a tray of snacks…and coffee!

"Morning, boys. Thought you could use some 'power-ups' during the night watch." Despite the light hollowness of her eyes made prominent by the lights, Ellen spoke to us brightly as she went over to us, the rich aroma of caffeine goodness filling the air and reawakening my senses, practically calling out, "Big Dave! Drink me!"

As if by magic, me and Lance both got a jolt, Lance pushing his chair over to the stairs so Ellen could lay the tray on its seat. "Oh, Ellen. You're a real blessing, you know!" Drowsiness gone for the moment, I made for a mug and some biscuits to dip.

"Indeed. Praise be God for this tray, Ellen." Lance also joked about, grabbing a loaf of bread that had some butter slapped on it.

Despite the lateness of the Watch, there was always going to be someone offering to keep the sentries up and fresh. Prudence with her veggie soup, Timothy with his missionary stories, Doc White with his inquiries in our well-beings. Made up for a certain caretaker who was out past his promised curfew time.

Still, what kind of grown adult man would give himself a curfew?

Taking her own cup and lowering down onto a tier, Ellen said, "It's a 'thank you' for keeping an eye on our shop the other day. " She smiled lightly to either of us, but then her brows frowned in though. "Odd. Connor's usually home a few minutes earlier than midnight. Where is he..."

I nodded in agreement. Job or no job, the least the guy could've done was call or text ahead. Usually, he would. Now I was getting worried.

"Anywho, what's keeping you up now? It's not your turn for the watch yet." I said, not that the women, except that brawler Myriam, were asked to do rounds in the first place. Some often still insisted, though

She took a sip from her mug first, then tiredly answered, "Oh, just a really complicated commissioned dress. Something for that Autumn fest or so up the East—"

Before she could finish her sentence, we all almost jumped at the sound of the front door being knocked. My first thought was to give a mental insult to the knocker for not using the doorbell, but then again, the whole apartment building would've heard. Before I could react further, Ellen stood up from the tier and went over towards the door.

"Oh, you best leave that to us, ma'am.", Lance chided cautiously as he followed and grabbed her by a shoulder before she could touch the doorknob.

Not so much as flinching as to exasperatingly turning her head, the seamstress chided. " It could be Connor. If the man came home this late, then we'd have to—"

"But Lance has a point, Ellen.", I interrupted and strode over to the door ahead of the two. I continued firmly, "At this late, we can't be sure who's gonna be at out doors. Especially if Connor hadn't called us yet."

Mutely, Ellen's reconsideration of what we said was shown with trusting nod. I took a deep breath and stretched my arms some, keeping awake before going over to the telecom.

Taking a moment, I pressed the speakers on and said in a polite but cautious voice, "Davenport apartment building. Who would this be?"

Removing my finger the button, I glanced back to my friends and eyed their anticipating looks. And then, back to the door, I awaited a reply from the other side.

It made my eye twitch when the receiver roared to life with some static before th sounds outside became audible. There were some subtle male voices bickering slightly. I couldn't make out the owners, but then someone hushed the others before the receiver buzzed to life.

_"Umm, yes. Good evenin' to ye, lad. Truly sorry to bother on such lateness." It's Duncan. Duncan Little. The pastor** who visited Ratonhnhaké:ton*** the other week?"_

A slight Irish tone. Hold on... _I knew that guy!_ This Little was sometimes with this rowdy group of friends Connor had. He and the native man were in complete contrast to the other two he often had with him. But the man was inclusive enough to use Connor's real name, so...

If _he _was here, then maybe Connor was with him and the other boys. Or knew where Connor is at the moment, at least. So, with a more welcoming and curious tone, I pressed the button again and said, "Yes, I remember you. Good evening. Now, before you speak your intentions of coming here, would you mind telling me what's currently happened to our caretaker? He's been out much longer than he usually is..."

I removed my finger again, but didn't have to wait long for the next set of replies.

"Oh, well. He's actually here with us...Dammit, Chief. Don't go galloping there!" A young, scruff voice said, the later sentence to some other person. It was them followed by a French accented voice.

_"But he's...Heheheh. Now, he's a tad bit...not himself...Just...well, don't be too shocked—"_

_"Oh, for _Christ's sake_, you two!" _Duncan exclaimed at whoever he was with, his irish deeper now. "Why don't you just blur out to the whole neighborhood and have a Twitter off about it!" He blurred out to whoever the others were before his tone subdued done when he spoke to me, "Yes. Connor's with us. He needed someone to take him home due to his current...state of being."

Whatever relief that I had upon hearing that Connor had come home was now replaced with worry. Current state of being? I turned back to Lance and Ellen, who both held the same confused expression I had before Ellen spoke up. "Let them in, Dave."

Lance, though the sleepiness had left him, nodded with a slight yawn out in agreement. I took to filtering what we might find in my head before shrugging and pressed the telecom again to tell Duncan, "Alright, alright, mister. I'll open the door now to let you all in."

As I heard the reply, Duncan's voice was rather relief, almost apologetically. "Bless you, sir. Please. Give us a moment to get our friend." And with that, the receiver went mute.

I took this as a cue to open the door, removing the locks as after handing Lance my blueprints. Finally, with an anticipating flick of the wrist, I turned the door knob and opened the door to allow them entry.

Problem was, I wasn't prepared for the sight beholding the stoop.

I couldn't see Connor yet, but his three friends, whom the other two I vaguely remember, were dressed in fancy black jackets and pants, frilly under shirts, red sashes everywhere, and gigantic sombreros. They were even carrying instruments: Duncan, I think, had a guitar while the other two sported a trumpet and maracas.

They were a mariachi band...at 1:20 A.M. in the morning.

Out of notion, I moved sideways to let them come in. They took in the hint and came inside, albeit with different looks of embarrassment. Duncan, whom I confirmed _was_ the visitor for the other week, looked to me as if he tried not to be too ashamed of his outfit.

I was too shocked by their ensemble to make a statement, but behind me, Ellen beat me to it. In a weary voice, she asked, "So...did you all take Connor to a..._fiesta_ of some kind?"

One of other guys, who was snickering despite himself, beat Duncan to a reply as he was just moving his mouth and said, "Well, not exactly. But the ride home _was _rather festive." It was followed by more spurts and a glare from Duncan. The other man, who looked younger than either men, was fidgeting in his costume and twirling the maracas, not looking at anyone.

When the French man finally calmed down, Duncan's expression softened as he turned back to us. He did some strumming on the guitar before speaking in a courteous tone, "We're terribly sorry for this awkwardness. I can't fully explain this to ye all without some eye brows raised."

"What do you mean by that now? What happened?" Lance, though still sleep-deprived, sounded alarmed. I couldn't blame him. Me And most likely Ellen as well were giving odd looks at the new trio.

It had appeared that Duncan was about to answer, but a strange clicking noise made itself known.

That clicking noise had a rhythm to it. Upbeat and snappy. And, bizarre as it is, it made me want to tap _dance_.

This...was getting weird.

As if on cue, the boys took up their instruments and drawled out a short intro tune. While he strummed the guitar, Duncan looked up to me from his sombrero, his face in constipation, and whispered, "We'll just let _him_ explain later."

Not less than three seconds later, the front door, making us jump for the second time tonight, swung open and slammed into the paralleling wall, but I soon got over the moment as we all gazed curiously at a tall male figure, the light emitted by the street lamps outside making a distinct silhouette over the shadowed man.

Standing in a slouch, an arm latched onto the door that was pushed open and holding a castanet in his hand (I'm pretty sure that was what caused the clicking noises), and a similar ensemble to this pseudo-mariachi band, only with a sombrero with those little red balls hanging around the rim. It complete covered his face because he was looking down.

After looking back to my two neighbors and seeing their confused reactions similar to mine, I turned back to the man at the door and strode slowly, scruffily asking out loud, "Hello...Are you one of Connor's—"

But with a flash of motion, the man's stature changed drastically as both arms that held castanets snapped into position and furiously clicked the shells, posture curved and lax as he moved forward, raising his head to unveil from the sombrero his dark skin and lone hair braid—

_Now wait a didly darn minute...!_

"C-Co-Connor?!" I finally stammered out, sensing similar groaning confusion from everyone else in the room, even his friends. As we gawked at him, our caretaker swaggered his way in a faster tempo with his castanets, stomping in a rhythm around that part of the front hall without much of a word.

The little mariachi band strummed out another tune when Connor, a flush in his cheeks worrisome evident, paused in place. And, as if the situation couldn't have started out more peculiar than it had already, the man raised his head slightly to look lulling at us under his hat and spoke in a slurred out drawl tone that I had never heard him use before in any normal situation.

"Buenas noches, mi amigos."

* * *

**Author's note:** *I know. I KNOW. The Red Sox is a Bostonian baseball team, but let's just have it for now that Big Dave MAY HAVE BEEN from Boston before moving to the Homestead...?

**It WAS said that Duncan Little was a missionary for the Irish Catholics, then pastor as a Protestant, then just a mediator throughout the AC Universe. Made him a pastor in this AU since the strictness or looseness of a religious sector now varies drastically.

***In the gameplay, when Connor FIRST talks to Duncan after the mission assigning, he tells Duncan his name, but then the man chides it as a fine WELSH name and asks for his real one, then calling his Native name "strong" and said "You should use it more often." So now I kinda have a headcanon that Duncan will PURPOSELY say "Rahtonhnhaké:ton" sometimes, just because he can and wants to. XD

So...right. This bit won't make that much sense until the next chapter, of which I HOPE to finish before finishing chapter 8 of "Know Thyself". likewise, it won't get REALLY interesting until "Act 4" of this, but please. Tolerate me. QeQ

Also, apologies if the image of "Senior Connor" disturbed you or made you laugh you food out. My bad.

Update coming later next week. shouldn't take too long... I hope. /SHOT

_~Itchy_


End file.
